He keepit repeatin' the word ower in his mouth."The salt, the salt, I've heard tell o' it afore, but I dinna like it.It's terrible cauld and unhamely."By this time an onding o' rain was coming up' frae the water, and I bade the man come indoors to the fire.He followed me, as biddable as a sheep, draggin' his legs like yin far gone in seeckness.I set him by the fire, and put whisky at his elbow, but he wadna touch it.
"I've nae need o' it," said he."I'm find and warm"; and he sits staring at the fire, aye comin' ower again and again, "The Solloway, the Solloway.It's a guid name and a muckle water."But sune I gaed to my bed, being heavy wi' sleep, for I had traivelled for twae days.
The next morn I was up at six and out to see the weather.It was a' changed.The muckle tides lay lang and still as our ain Loch o' the Lee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o' England shine bricht and clear.I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better to tak the lang miles back in sic a sun than in a blast o' rain.
But as I lookit I saw some folk comin' up frae the beach carryin'
something atween them.My hert gied a loup, and " some puir, drooned sailor-body," says I to mysel', "whae has perished in yesterday's storm." But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run like daft, and lang ere I was up on them I saw it was Yeddie.
He lay drippin' and white, wi' his puir auld hair lyin' back frae his broo and the duds clingin' to his legs.But out o' the face there had gane a' the seeckness and weariness.His een were stelled, as if he had been lookin' forrit to something, and his lips were set like a man on a lang errand.And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm in his hand that nae man could loose it, so they e'en let it be.
Then they tell't me the tale o't, how at the earliest licht they had seen him wanderin' alang the sands, juist as they were putting out their boats to sea.They wondered and watched him, till of a sudden he turned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till he was oot o' sicht.They rowed a' their pith to the place, but they were ower late.Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi' his face to the other side; and then they got his body, for the tide was rinnin' low in the mornin'.I tell't them a' I kenned o' him, and they were sair affected."Puir cratur," said yin, "he's shurely better now."So we brocht him up to the house and laid him there till the folk i' the town had heard o' the business.Syne the procurator-fiscal came and certifeed the death and the rest was left tae me.I got a wooden coffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi' his staff in his hand and his auld duds about him.
I mindit o' my sworn word, for I was yin o' the four that had promised, and I ettled to dae his bidding.It was saxteen mile to the hills, and yin and twenty to the lanely tap whaur he had howkit his grave.But I never heedit it.I'm a strong man, weel-used to the walkin' and my hert was sair for the auld body.
Now that he had gotten deliverance from his affliction, it was for me to leave him in the place he wantit.Forbye, he wasna muckle heavier than a bairn.
It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven o'clock I was at the edge o' the muirlands.There was a braw mune, and a the glens and taps stood out as clear as midday.Bit by bit, for I was gey tired, I warstled ower the rigs and up the cleuchs to the Gled-head; syne up the stany Gled-cleuch to the lang grey hill which they ca' the Hurlybackit.By ten I had come to the cairn, and black i' the mune I saw the grave.So there Iburied him, and though I'm no a releegious man, I couldna help sayin' ower him the guid words o' the Psalmist--"As streams of water in the South, Our bondage, Lord, recall."So if you go from the Gled to the Aller, and keep far over the north side of the Muckle Muneraw, you will come in time to a stony ridge which ends in a cairn.There you will see the whole hill country of the south, a hundred lochs, a myriad streams, and a forest of hill-tops.There on the very crest lies the old man, in the heart of his own land, at the fountain-head of his many waters.If you listen you will hear a hushed noise as of the swaying in trees or a ripple on the sea.It is the sound of the rising of burns, which, innumerable and unnumbered, flow thence to the silent glens for evermore.
THE GIPSY'S SONG TO THE LADY CASSILIS
"Whereupon the Faas, coming down fron the Gates of Galloway, did so bewitch my lady that she forgat husband and kin, and followed the tinkler's piping." --Chap-book of the Raid of Cassilis.
The door is open to the wall, The air is bright and free;Adown the stair, across the hall, And then-the world and me;The bare grey bent, the running stream, The fire beside the shore;And we will bid the hearth farewell, And never seek it more, My love, And never seek it more.
And you shall wear no silken gown, No maid shall bind your hair;The yellow broom shall be your gem, Your braid the heather rare.
Athwart the moor, adown the hill, Across the world away;The path is long for happy hearts That sing to greet the day, My love, That sing to greet the day.
When morning cleaves the eastern grey, And the lone hills are red When sunsets light the evening way And birds are quieted;In autumn noon and springtide dawn, By hill and dale and sea, The world shall sing its ancient song Of hope and joy for thee, My love, Of hope and joy for thee.
And at the last no solemn stole Shall on thy breast be laid;No mumbling priest shall speed thy soul, No charnel vault thee shade.
But by the shadowed hazel copse, Aneath the greenwood tree, Where airs are soft and waters sing, Thou'lt ever sleep by me, My love, Thou'lt ever sleep by me.
